It couldn't be helped. The moment someone mentioned this song as a songfic I should do, I immediately thought of FrUK. Story is AU in a universe where both Francis and Arthur are university professors. An idea I've been playing in my head for awhile and this is me bringing it to life to the tune of amazing music.
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When I was younger I saw my daddy cry
and curse at the wind.
He broke his own heart and I watched
as he tried to reassemble it.
Arthur was no romanticist. It was a product of his upbringing.
And my momma swore
that she would never let herself forget.
And that was the day that I promised
I'd never sing of love if it does not exist.
Arthur remembered at a very young age, his mother walking out without even looking back. His father, too shocked and too weak to overcome the loss, turned to drink as a way to cope.
He remembered hearing sobs wrack the house every single night and he couldn't really understand it anymore now than he did when he was a child.
If love was truly that agonising, then why did the human race put itself through such nonsense?
He was glad he didn't understand such a thing. It made it easier to discard the idea of love all together.
And yet...
But darling,
He stared at the rose which sat neatly on his desk. On top of the stack of papers he still needed to go through and grade.
He'd only been gone for five minutes to get himself a cup of tea from the staff room and there it was. Did that mean that someone had been waiting for him to leave long enough to place the rose there?
Arthur snorted in disbelief and picked the blossom up in his fingers, carefully noting to not touch the thorns as he took in every single little detail; it was fresh – likely picked that very morning.
Who would go through such trouble to give him such a thing? Why?
Arthur quickly pushed the thoughts away as he tossed the rose into the rubbish bin.
There was no stupid little love note attached so it made things all the more easy.
He could pretend that it wasn't meant for him and that it was an accident and that way he wouldn't be able to get his hopes up.
Hope was something Arthur never really had the patience for anyway.
You are the only exception.
There was another one the next morning.
Arthur stared.
It didn't go away.
He chose to glare at it.
It didn't burst into flames.
He threw it away too.
You are the only exception.
Another week, another seven roses.
Arthur wasn't sure what to make of this other than that it was incredibly frustrating.
Whoever was doing this was a moron. Did they not get the idea?
Though, if they cared enough to leave a note with a name, Arthur would have gladly went to chew them out about leaving the probably insect-ridden abominations on his pristine desk. Then maybe they would get it that he was not remotely interested in any way.
Even though when he received the fourth rose, he had started placing them in a book so to properly preserve them.
You are the only exception.
It was on the fourteenth rose that Arthur had to begrudgingly admit that perhaps, maybe, something strange was happening to him.
Especially since the need to throttle whoever was sending these ...creations had quite significantly decreased.
To the point where now, he was leaving the roses in a little vase which sat on the corner of his desk.
It was another surprising present from his admirer and Arthur thought it would have been a waste to throw it away. Especially when he could put it to use now that his little book of pressed flowers was filling up.
You are the only exception.
Twenty seven roses later, Arthur was beginning to feel a strange sort of longing and it frustrated him to no end. He would take out this frustration in the form of anger at whoever happened to be in the vicinity.
"Oi, what in the bloody blazes do you think you're doing in my office?"
Blue eyes which could only be compared to the sky.
"Moi?"
Deceptively innocent smile that held so much mystery.
"Yes, you! Who else is here?"
"Ah, if you are so bothered, Cher, I shall leave."
A scent that was of some horrid French cologne and...
Roses?
"Who the fuck are you?"
"Hm?"
Ugh, he was so...French.
"You heard me, Frog bastard."
"My name is Francis Bonnefoy."
Francis Bonnefoy...
"Get the fuck out of my office and don't come back."
It was a half-hearted demand at most as Arthur slammed the door in the Frog's face, huffing as he turned his attention to his desk.
He was just about to sit down before he noticed the new addition to his collection.
This time there was a note attached.
Rose number thirty seven.
Maybe I know somewhere
deep in my soul
that love never lasts.
And we've got to find other ways
to make it alone.
Or keep a straight face.
And I've always lived like this
keeping a comfortable distance.
And up until now I've sworn to myself
that I'm content with loneliness.
Why he was following the directions on the little note, he didn't quite understand, but he was so curious; and while he understood the dangers of curiosity, this was something that Arthur just could not fight.
Not like everything else.
The fact that someone had managed to breach his walls honestly scared him. He had spent years building them up and now, so easily, someone he didn't even know had managed to tear them down.
With thirty seven roses and a single note which such delicate, fluid writing that only a poet could possess.
But, again, Arthur had never been a romanticist and he was in no way attracted to this admirer's handwriting.
No, of course not.
That would just be stupid.
Because none of it was ever worth the risk.
He had been waiting at this particular spot for a good portion of a minute and he was already anxious. And furious at the prospect that this was all just one big ruse and someone was fucking with him and that no one was really coming and that his protective barriers against this sort of strange affection were torn down for no good reason at all.
All of his worrying was just his own fears coming back and fuelling the nausea in his own belly that he really tried hard to ignore, because if this person did show up then it would do no good to vomit all over them.
That would hardly be attractive. Not that Arthur was concerned with being considered attractive or anything. No, of course not. He wasn't really ever attractive anyway.
His hair was choppy – messy. His face was always in some sort of permanent scowl and don't even get him started on his eyebrows. But he had been told countless times that he lacked style – sweater vests were not cool (he had verbally thrashed who had said such a thing, stating that the entire point was not to look cool, but to look sensible. Even though the reason Arthur did wear the sweater vest was to look at least a little attractive in some way.) and they were not flattering and they didn't hide the parts of him which had become a little soft in his age.
Not that he was old or anything. Thirty three wasn't old at all.
Yet, it was in all his worrying and grumbling and being flustered in general that he failed to notice the slender Frenchman which leaned against the tree beside him, just simply smiling.
Well you are the only exception.
"Ah, when you are flustered, you are much too adorable. Did you know that, Cher?"
"Bloody fucking hell!"
Arthur didn't exclaim out in fear at all. No, that certainly wasn't it.
You are the only exception.
To say that he was surprised to see that it was the man he had seen that morning, well, Arthur wasn't sure exactly how to put it. He was, but he wasn't. Only a wine guzzling bastard could come up with something so sappy and romantic and so cheesy as giving thirty seven roses in hopes to get into someone's pants.
"I know that I am attractive, cher, but must you stare at me in such a way?"
"Y- you! Fucking hell!"
"Ah, such a mouth. I wonder...if you sound so wonderful now when you say such vile things, then what would you sound like if you had actual pleasantries to say?"
"W- what?" ...was he serious?
Arthur ignored the pounding of his heart and turned to leave, unable to really stop himself.
His fight or flight instincts were kicking in and he thought it was a really, incredibly stupid idea to come here.
Especially since he was clearly being mocked.
"No, I'm not going to bloody have sex with you. Cut it with the cheesy, stupid pick up lines you stupid Frog."
He should have just left instead of saying anything to him.
You are the only exception.
"Who said I wanted to have sex with you?" Francis sounded so sincere that Arthur couldn't help, but look back at him with disbelief.
"...isn't that what your type does?"
You are the only exception.
"Consider me an exception to the stereotype, cher. I assure you, I am not trying to woo you for the reasons you worry about." Why did this man have such a charming smile?
Why did Arthur's chest have to ache like this?
Why did he have the feeling he was breaking a promise to himself?
You are the only exception.
"...an exception?"
"Oui. Did you like the roses, cher?"
"Er...yes?"
Arthur wasn't red in the face because Francis was now closer than he'd ever let anyone before. No, that wasn't it at all.
And it wasn't because Arthur's heart was begging him not to that he didn't push him away.
"I am glad. I grew them myself and was worried that you would throw them all away..."
"...I threw out the first three."
"Ah...well, thirty seven out of forty is not terribly bad, oui?"
"...I suppose not."
Quiet.
"W- would you like to go to tea?" The shakiness to the Frenchman's tone was the only thing that kept Arthur from spluttering absolute nonsense because it was proof that someone was just as nervous as he was about this.
"...I..." He couldn't bring himself to say no.
"Sure. Why not? You've already dragged me out this far. You might as well get me a decent cup of tea to make up for it."
I've got a tight grip on reality,
but I can't let go of what's in front of me here.
I know you're leaving in the morning
when you wake up.
Leave me with some kind of proof it's not a dream.
They spent all night talking and bickering about absolute nonsense. Arthur was pleased to know that Francis actually had a brain and could somewhat rival him when it came to holding a steady argument. Even when it came to something as small and simple as who was the best football player in European history.
Arthur didn't really want the other to leave when this was over because to him, there was a possibility that this was just a dream that would make him ache for this stupid thing called 'companionship' in the morning.
You are the only exception.
Even though morning came and Arthur was under the impression that everything would continue as though nothing happened, he was surprised to find that upon going back to work that morning, he found himself face to face with another one of those menacing roses.
There was a note attached – short, sweet, simple. It was in that stupid Frenchman's girly writing stating that he had a good night and that he'd love to do it again.
You are the only exception
Love to do it again.
You are the only exception
Love.
You are the only exception
Arthur was never a romanticist. It was a product of his upbringing.
You are the only exception.
He had learned from a young age that love would only end up hurting him – it happened to his father after all, when his mother left them behind.
You are the only exception
He had promised himself that he'd never let himself fall like this.
You are the only exception
He had promised himself that he'd never fall in love. That the walls he had built up around himself would never be torn in such a way that would leave him so incredibly defenseless to be infected by the pretentious beast which was love.
You are the only exception
Yet, there was always exceptions to rules and promises were often made to be broken.
And I'm on my way to believing.
Oh, and I'm on my way to believing.